


Air Enough to Breathe

by rightsidethru



Series: Steter Network Monthly Prompts [3]
Category: Slavic Mythology & Folklore, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Mythology, BAMF Stiles, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Fairytale Elements, Dark Stiles, Drowning, Eichen | Echo House, M/M, Mama Stilinski doesn't like it when you mess with her baby, Prompt: Water, Shady Alan Deaton, Steter - Freeform, Steter Network Monthly Prompt, The Steter Network, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 01:29:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12002094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightsidethru/pseuds/rightsidethru
Summary: The orderlies always fed him and Peter twice a day, every day.So far, Stiles and Peter had eaten sixty-seven meals.That meant thirty-three and a half days—to the whiskey-eyed teen’s knowledge, unless days had somehow been lost—they had been trapped here: no visitors, nodoctorsto see them, no signs or indications that the pack intended on rescuing Stiles and his current roommate. Just white walls to surround them both, the steady, constant heat of Peter curled against his back, and the vicious, knowing eyes of each of the orderlies as they dropped off the bidaily meals.The miasma that bled and leeched into every inch of Eichen House pressed down upon the teen and, as each day passed, Stiles found that it was getting harder and harder to breathe.





	Air Enough to Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> September 2017 Prompt: Water

“ _If you're a sailor, best not know how to swim. Swimming only prolongs the inevitable—if the sea wants you and your time has come._ ”   
\-- **Tai-Pan** by James Clavell

*

The orderlies always fed him and Peter twice a day, every day.

So far, Stiles and Peter had eaten sixty-seven meals. 

That meant thirty-three and a half days—to the whiskey-eyed teen’s knowledge, unless days had somehow been lost—they had been trapped here: no visitors, no _doctors_ to see them, no signs or indications that the pack intended on rescuing Stiles and his current roommate. Just white walls to surround them both, the steady, constant heat of Peter curled against his back, and the vicious, knowing eyes of each of the orderlies as they dropped off the bidaily meals. 

The miasma that bled and leeched into every inch of Eichen House pressed down upon the teen and, as each day passed, Stiles found that it was getting harder and harder to _breathe_.

 _Please let someone come tomorrow_ , Stiles whispered to himself each night as he fell asleep, Peter’s arm a steady anchor as it settled around his chest. _Please. Tomorrow. **Please.**_

**

The night that everything had gone to hell had started like most nights for Stiles: he and Peter had been settled in Derek’s loft, researching potential hits for the latest Big and Bad that had decided to visit Beacon Hills; the teen had been voting sphinx while the older werewolf had leaned more towards the monster being a guardian spirit gone rogue. Both options had been hotly debated over the pizza that Stiles had managed to talk Peter into buying for them, and things were—good. 

Stiles still wished that Scott was more willing to take him out on patrols or join the rest of the pack during investigations, but the amber-eyed teen understood why that wasn’t possible at the moment. There was still a lot of caution, a lot of distrust and wariness, that threaded through the pack after the Nogitsune’s vengeance-filled rampage, and the teen _got it_. He did. He understood why he was still getting careful side-eyes, why no one was quite ready to sit next to him on the couch or at the lunch table during school days. He understood why there was a disconnect between himself and the others: knew, as well, that there was little enough he could do to change it. Understood—he did!—why Lydia couldn’t yet be alone in a room with him.

But patience and proof that things were safe again—at least with him—would end up working out in the long run; it had always done before, and Stiles knew that he just… had to wait it out.

Until then, however, he was regulated to research assistant for Peter, and the more time Stiles was left alone with the older man, the more the teen realized just how easy it was to get along with the ‘wolf; Peter was snarky and terrifyingly smart: always ready with a sarcastic comeback, and it was _so easy_ to play off of the other. They bantered with one another, and Stiles found that he fell into an instinctive, almost meditative rhythm with the Beta as they worked their way through multitudes of books and pages upon pages of internet sites. It was simple to strike up a camaraderie with Peter, one that he had never managed to do with the others in Scott’s pack, and it felt… nice. Reassuring, in a way that Stiles hadn’t been able to settle into for months. The interactions between himself and Peter felt _safe_.

Of course, he should have expected, then, that things could—and would—go to hell in a handbasket at that shift in comfort and foundational realization.

Stiles had been staying later than usual at the loft: both he and Peter were on a research binge, pulling up page after page of findings and jotting down a multitude amount of notes to present to the pack at the next meeting within a day or two—and there was the fact, as well, that Stiles would have no one to go home to. The Sheriff was currently convalescing in a room at the hospital: even with the high levels of supernatural activity that went on in Beacon Hills, it was—shockingly—a robbery gone south that had finally put the Stilinski patriarch in the hospital. He was due to be released in a week or so despite there being no complications with the surgery to remove the bullet he had been hit with, and Stiles had taken to actively avoiding his house as much as possible over the past several days. The emptiness that awaited him was different than the silence that came while he dad was only away on a shift.

So it was better to stay and banter with Peter; it was better to have someone to eat a meal with, to be around during a researching binge—to have _company_.

It was during a particularly loud debate about the identity of the current Big Bad that the windows in the loft suddenly blew inwards: shards of glass went flying through the air, and the teen had frozen—flashbacks of what the Nogitsune had done to the Sheriff’s department flickering behind his whiskey-warm gaze. The older man, however, had immediately _moved_ , body a blur as Peter darted across the empty expanse of the living room to shove Stiles out of direct range of sight. 

“Stiles, _move_ \--run! _Go_!” Peter snarled as he shifted, fangs dropping ominously to accompany a fury-limed roar: one by one, armored bodies began stepping into the loft through the windows and destroyed door. And, shockingly to Stiles, Peter kept his body between them and the attackers, purposefully using himself as a sort of living, breathing shield.

Gratitude, denial, affection: a multitude of emotions crested over the teen in a wave that was soon enough smothered and drowned as he watched Peter jerk back—again and again—as the masked people (hunters?) shot at the ‘wolf. 

It didn’t take long before Peter was sent to his knees, dizzy and barely conscious from the many tranquilizer darts that dotted his torso. He swayed, barely able to keep his balance, and finally slumped down to the ground as the sedatives overwhelmed the ‘wolf’s system and knocked him out completely. It was over within only several heartbeats of moments, though time seemed to stretch and warp around Stiles—putty and malleable enough to manipulate, though shock and fear took precedence and the majority of his attention.

Who--?

 _Why_ \--?

A prick at the base of his throat shattered through the teen’s shock, and Stiles brought a hand up to brush already shaky fingertips against the dart that had embedded itself in meat and bone. Vision already blurring, the dark-haired teen stumbled and fell to his knees, as well, bracing himself on the ground next to Peter’s prone body.

“I don’t… I don’t understand…” Stiles murmured to himself and met Deaton’s carefully neutral, blank-faced expression. “ _Why_??”

There was darkness.

And dreams.

_And memories._

**

The days passed slowly for Stiles. 

No one came to visit, the orderlies would deliver their meals and ignore any questions that the teen tossed their way, and Peter spent most of the time drugged and barely aware of his surroundings; oftentimes, the ‘wolf only had enough energy to curl around Stiles, arm looped carefully around the teen’s waist as his cheek pressed against the sharp arch of the boy’s hipbone. His awareness was fogged, consciousness slow in coming whenever it _did_ come, and Stiles spent most of the days that followed their imprisonment staring at the blank wall of their cell, long fingers threading through Peter’s hair in an steadying sort of gesture—and thinking. _Plotting_. Planning.

He would not be held for long. 

**

It was day forty-five, and Stiles and Peter finally received their first visitor.

Scott refused to meet his best friend’s eyes, staring pointedly down at scuffed tile and his beat-up sneakers. The Alpha tended to shift from foot to foot as the silence between the two friends stretched and stretched and came near breaking, and it was the ‘wolf who eventually cleared his throat in an awkward sort of way and spread his hands beseechingly towards the imprisoned teen.

“Look… Stiles… it wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” Scott began, ignoring how his voice cracked. “We were supposed to talk to you about it—it was supposed to be a mutual sort of agreement, I swear, okay?—but things started getting out of hand and Deaton said that the darkness around you was getting… _worse_. And everyone was afraid that maybe, somehow the Nogitsune had managed to come back. Or maybe some other dark spirit managed to possess you again. But Deaton said it was getting worse, and no one could take the chance of—things—happening again.”

Stiles stared at his best friend, silent and golden gaze flat.

Scott peeked up from beneath his lashes, wincing at the unnervingly blank expression on the other teen’s face and yet again glanced away to stare down at his feet. “It wasn’t supposed to be an ambush. You weren’t supposed to be down here, with the other dangerous supernatural creatures. You weren’t supposed to be with _Peter_. But things got out of hand and Deaton said that he was-- _concerned_.”

Idly tilting his head to the side, Stiles spoke for the first time since Scott had come into view. “So when are we going to be let go, then? Peter and I have been here for over a month, Scottie.”

Silence, heavy and thick with guilt, came as Stiles’ answer.

Amber eyes sharpening with sudden fury, the paler of the two teens snapped out: “ _Scott_.”

“I don’t know,” the Alpha eventually murmured, words low and barely audible. “Deaton and Morrell… they’re still worried.”

“And _you_ know that there’s nothing to be worried about,” Stiles parried instantly, fingers tightening briefly in the fabric stretching across his thighs. “I’ve been better since the Nogitsune—I’ve been healing. We’ve been getting better. The pack is. There’s nothing wrong: not with us; not with _me_.”

Scott remained silent at that particular statement, and Stiles felt the sudden sting of betrayal and hurt—like the punch of a dagger, sliding between his ribs to press deep within the meat of his body—at the knowledge that the ‘wolf, _his best friend_ , didn’t believe him. Thought that something new had taken over Stiles, had infiltrated his thoughts and actions and would soon enough direct its attention to Beacon Hills at large.

With the Nogitsune, there had been clues—hidden but still there should one choose to actually _look_ \--of Stiles’ possession. But now…? Nothing. No clues, no hints, no shifts in behavior: because _nothing had changed_. And yet… Stiles could still remember that blank expression upon Deaton’s face before he fell unconscious. Could remember, too, the well-hidden hunger that burned darkly in the back of that seemingly endless gaze.

Fury suddenly sparked to life, flaring to a brightness that paralleled the burning heart of a star, and Stiles eventually broke the renewed silence that rose between the Spark and his Alpha: his voice was so very carefully even, flat even as power threaded through each and every word, granting them a sort of force that made the air tremble. “Get out. Go away, Scott McCall. _And don’t come back_.”

**

“Peter. Peter, you need to wake up. You need to eat.”

The words were coaxingly said, accompanied by the steady combing of Stiles’ long fingers through the older man’s ash-blond hair. Each touch was an encouragement for the ‘wolf to bring himself back to full awareness, to fight the effects of the wolfsbane that the Eichen House orderlies had pumped through the other’s system. The touches earned Stiles a soft, unhappy rumble that barely edged into the throatiness of a growl, and Peter lifted his lashes just enough for Stiles to see how his blue gaze had gone luminous with the predator that lurked within the other’s soul.

The wolfsbane had too strong of a hold on the older werewolf, and it was only moments later before Peter yet again drifted off into a drugged stupor, muscles falling lax in his return to unconsciousness—and still, even now, keeping that arm wrapped tightly around the teen’s middle.

“Fuck,” Stiles breathed out and bowed his head, shifting his hold to curl his long fingers over the nape of the ‘wolf’s neck. “ _Fuck_.”

**

“Good morning, Stiles.”

Seconds lingered and merged into minutes as the teen stared at the blank wall opposite of where he sat with Peter; he had sensed the approaching presence long before the other man finally stepped into view, and it was longer still as Stiles weighed whether or not he actually wanted to _acknowledge_ the other. In the end, the whiskey-eyed boy eventually blinked, slow and languid, and shifted his gaze to meet his visitor’s through the enforced glass that separated him and Peter from the main hallway.

“Hello, Dr. Deaton.”

The Druid offered a small smile at the stilted greeting, head inclining slightly.

Stiles watched the older man, face blank and skin porcelain pale: expression as unnerving as a doll’s carefully watching, silent gaze. His whiskey-hued eyes were starkly lit against the bleached paleness of the teen’s skin—sickness, not enough food, and lack of activity and sunlight causing their own, multiple damages—and as neutral-toned as Stiles managed to keep his overall expression, there was no way to hide the way that his eyes practically _glowed_ with his choked-back rage.

Tilting his head to the side, the teen began conversationally, “Are you here to finally release us, doctor? As you can see from the two months—two months?—we’ve been kept here… neither Peter nor I pose any threat to the McCall pack specifically and Beacon Hills in general.”

“Ah. Well, you see, Stiles, there have still been some concerns expressed—“

“Whose?”

Deaton blinked at the interruption, taken aback temporarily as he stared down at the seemingly calm boy who sat on the floor before the Druid, back straight and body deathly still—a boy who had one of the deadliest monsters Deaton had ever come across curled around him, taking comfort from the teen like nothing more than a harmless, tame _puppy_. “Pardon?” the sometimes-vet asked in an effort to buy himself some time from Stiles’ question.

“I asked: _whose_? Who has been expressing these concerns, Dr. Deaton? None of them have been broached to either Peter or myself. We were attacked unprovoked and then locked away in Eichen House. I have only ever encountered Scott on one occasion and orderlies—and now you. So I ask again: _who_ has been expressing these concerns about me?”

The Druid settled back on the heels of his feet, clasping his hands together at the small of his back. There was no point in lying, not when it was clear that Stiles was picking up on every minutia of expression and word. “I was the one who expressed concerns about you—and Peter, by extension.”

Stiles tilted his head to the opposite side at the admittance, gesture almost birdlike and alien: _Other_. “Why?”

Deaton just smiled at that, refusing to provide an answer: just smiled, soft and indecipherable and Gallic—quiet and knowing and, of course, in the right for the decisions made and the suggestions given. Refusing to explain _why_ and, perhaps, that was all the answer that Stiles really needed.

The teen sat up more completely, back ramrod straight as his level gaze met Deaton’s own. “Did you know that your sister and I once talked about drowning, when the school required to go see her after Gerard kidnapped and beat me…? We talked about Matt, about voluntary apnea—about how peaceful drowning must feel after holding your breath for so long.”

Behind his back, Deaton’s hands spasmed—just for a brief second, there and gone again—and his expression was solemn as it settled once more upon the teen within the cell. “…Marin did mention that conversation to me shortly after it occurred, yes. Why are you bringing it up now, Stiles?”

Stiles’ eyes _flared_ , burning bright and gold and with such _rage_ and _wrath_ and _promise_. He smiled, then, the slow curve of his mouth a bladed promise as the teen continued to hold Deaton’s gaze with his own. “I was just wondering to myself, Dr. Deaton: how long can you hold your breath?”

_Drip._

_Drip._

_…driiiiip..._

**

Seventy-one days.

Stiles closed his eyes and _breathed_ , head bowing low to press against Peter’s temple. With every day that passed, Peter was slowly getting worse: the ‘wolf no longer ate, barely managed to remain conscious for only _moments_ at a time—the wolfsbane in his system was making the older man waste away, withering to nothing except dust and ash and pale memories of glacial eyes.

Stiles closed his eyes and _breathed_.

Water slowly began trickling down from the crown of his head, trailing like rivers over the contours of his face and pooling within its valleys before _drip-drip-dripping_ off of the sharp edge of his jawline. His clothes were soon enough soaked through with water that was freezing to the touch—puddles spreading out from where he remained huddled over Peter’s still form, even as the walls and ceiling began to groan and weep.

Stiles closed his eyes and _breathed_.

The water came flooding in faster, arctic cold and enough that the barest touch brought frostbite: water filled the basement of Eichen House, hungry in its relentless surge as hallways and rooms filled and flooded and ice formed and cracked along its surface. It reached and reached and reached and the inhabitants of Eichen House _drowned_.

Hours—days—later, Stiles took his first steps out of Eichen House, feet bare and leaving behind puddled footprints as he made his way towards the woods that ringed the dark house. Peter was sprawled over the teen’s shoulders in a fireman’s hold, dry and warm despite the fact that the whiskey-gazed teen remained soaked to the bone and still dripping water, lashes clumping together with every blink.

In the silvery moonlight that broke through the trees’ branches, Stiles’ flesh looked deadman-pale.

**

It took three days before Peter finally stirred, eyes opening to meet the teen’s bright gaze. He smiled tiredly, still weak from the wolfsbane that lingered in his system, and reached up to cup a hand over the pale skin of the nape of Stiles’ neck. Claws pricked over sensitive, thin skin, and the ‘wolf used his hold on the boy to coax him closer: mouth pressing against the crook of Stiles’ throat, the werewolf breathed in the scent of clean water, of growing things, of the sharp tang of ozone.

“You got us out,” he stated simply and let his lips linger against the steady pulse of the teen’s heartbeat.

“And you tried to protect me when they first came for us,” Stiles replied easily enough in turn and brushed the pad of his thumb over the arch of Peter’s cheekbone, allowing the sensation of stubble against his skin to soak in—to finally allow himself to _feel_.

The ‘wolf chuckled at that, low and raspy, even as he drew Stiles closer still. “I’ve told you before: _I like you, Stiles_.”

**

Deaton paused mid-way to closing the operating room’s door, stilling as he caught sight of his unexpected—and uninvited—guest.

Stiles smiled at the Druid from where he sat on one of the tables, idly swinging his legs back and forth, back and forth: harmless or seeming to be so, head tilting to the side just enough beneath the bright lights that Deaton was finally able to pick out the red highlights that _bled_ throughout the teen’s mussed hair.

“Hello again, Dr. Deaton,” Stiles greeted cheerfully, tone of voice terrifyingly at odds with the predatory smile he sent the vet’s way. “Since your visit to Eichen House… I couldn’t help but wonder: how familiar are you with Slavic fairy tales?”

The Druid stilled further and took a step back from the unearthly teen. “Not very, actually. Why do you ask, Stiles?” he asked conversationally, reaching for the door even as it slid from his hold to slam shut, locking itself with an audible, damning _snick_ of tumblers falling into place.

Inclining his head towards one of the bathtubs that slowly began to fill with water, Deaton’s eyes widened until white showed all around his dark irises as a gray-tinged hand shot out of the water to grip tight along the tub’s edge. A woman emerged from the water just then, whiskey-eyed and with long, red hair that fanned out around her body like fiery river weed.

“My mother would like a word with you, doctor,” the boy said and smiled wide enough to show delicately pointed canines, teeth and eyes and skin that matched the Rusalka that _prowled_ towards the Druid, predatory, furious intent lacing through every movement that the dark Fae made.

The waters came and surged and rose—higher and higher still as they filled every inch of the clinic—and Stiles laughed and _laughed_ as he drowned, lungs filling with the arctic-laced ice of the water, and was dragged even deeper within their chilled embrace.

He _breathed_.

::fin::

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! <3
> 
> *
> 
> You're also more than welcome to stop by and [say hi](http://rightsidethru.tumblr.com/)! ;D
> 
> Wiki article on the Rusalka can be found [here](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rusalka).


End file.
